


Strange New Worlds

by halotolerant



Category: New Blood (TV)
Genre: Domestic Fluff, Game of Thrones References, M/M, References to Jane Austen, Romantic Fluff, Star Trek References
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-24
Updated: 2016-12-24
Packaged: 2018-09-10 16:47:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,004
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8924656
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/halotolerant/pseuds/halotolerant
Summary: Rash, Stefan and a Netflix argument that ends well...





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [elfwhistletree (elftreewhistle)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/elftreewhistle/gifts).



> For the wonderful **elfwhistletree** who, apart from many other greatnesses, introduced me to this awesome show. Merry Christmas  <3
> 
> With apologies to Gene Roddenberry, George RR Martin and Jane Austen *g*

“I really don’t like the look of this, Captain,” Rash repeated, and held up his flashing tricorder to show the readings as clearly as he could, hoping the man would listen to facts if not to him.

 

Unfortunately, however, Captain Sands still seemed to feel it was necessary to take precious seconds casting his eyes uncomprehendingly over the urgently updating readouts, as if the red light in the ‘ALERT’ section wasn’t enough.

 

“Are you sure you know what we’re looking at here, Lieutenant Sayyad?”

 

Rash spluttered. “Of course! I….” he stopped himself, and took a breath. “The machine is very rarely wrong, sir,” he pointed out, as diplomatically as he could.

 

 _Unlike you or Commodore Heywood_.

 

He cleared his throat. “We need to leave right now.”

 

Indeed, the air around them was starting to smell distinctly odd as the Heltron 7 gas crept in rapidly, rising to the levels where you didn’t have to be a micro filter to detect it.

 

“Perhaps you are right,” Captain Sands said slowly, a frown crossing his face. Rash could have screamed with frustration, but he put that energy into action, flipping open his communicator at once.

 

“All teams, all teams, this is Lieutenant Sayyad,” he put out over the emergency channel. “Everyone back to the mouth of the cave and go outside, I repeat, outside and into the open, and await beam-up.”

 

“Tell ‘em not to run, we don’t want anyone falling over in the dark.”

 

“Good call, sir.” Rash gave a fixed grin, and transmitted the additional advice on the move, as the two of them also started to make their way out and towards the light.

 

After all, he did need that promotion.

 

Slowly, he and Captain Sands picked their way through the cave system, passing once more the marvelous crystalline stalactites for which they had come to this godforsaken planet, racing against the claims of the Romulans.

 

Rash could see the purplish light of the planet’s red dwarf star from the entrance now.

 

He lifted his communicator again. “This is Lieutenant Sayyad. How’s everyone doing? Report.”

 

Several survey teams had come planetside, and as per the plan – a stupid, plan, in Rash’s opinion, but no one had ever asked him about it, junior as he was – and the teams had all gone off down different tunnels. They hadn’t reckoned on the motion-activated Heltron 7 mines already being here. Almost like the Romulans didn’t want to share the crystals, and who could have predicted that?

 

 _Get the promotion, get off this crew forever_ , he told himself for the thousandth time.

 

His communicator beeped. “Lieutenant, this is Commander T’Vel, we’re all assembled outside the cave mouth, and I count 27 of 28 crew present not including yourself and the Captain.”

 

“Well who’s missing then?” Rash inquired.

 

Before she could answer, Rash’s attention was caught by a crash of rock echoing along a side tunnel near where he was walking.

 

“Help!” someone called out. Young, human and male from the sounds of it, and with a voice that rapidly provided even closer identification than that.

 

Rash froze.

 

“You go on, sir,” he said, turning to Captain Sands urgently. “It’s that bloody Kowolski again. I told them not to let him come down after what happened on the station at Jervos!”

 

“There’s no time for heroics!” Finally, the situation seemed to have sunk fully into the Captain’s mind. “If you can’t get out in the next couple of minutes the gas will kill you both!”

 

Rash paused. He could hear that low voice still crying for help.

 

“I can do it, sir. You go on now.” And without waiting for permission, Rash set his shoulders and headed off down the side tunnel, torch focused carefully on the uneven floor ahead, aware of the rising scent of the Keltron 7. It took a while to affect humans, but when it did…

 

There, though, already in the beam of his light, was the red fabric of an engineering uniform, disappearing under a rock fall. And there, yes, Kowolski’s face, dusty and with a cut on his brow but his eyes just about open, glinting in the dimness.

 

Rash went to kneel over him. “Ensign Kowolski? Are you hurt?”

 

“Dunno. My leg.” Kowolski gasped, his pale face wracked for a moment with pain.

 

“What were you thinking of, coming alone along here?”

 

“The crystals… so shiny…”

 

He was just about conscious the whole time Rash was digging him out, but when lifted into Rash’s arms, the gas now so thick that it was hard to see, Ensign Kowolski swooned clean away…

 

-

 

“Shiny? Really? _That’s_ what you think I’d be like?” Stefan folded his arms and raised his eyebrow. He was standing by the microwave as it whirred around behind him, and he was aware that tapping your foot with irritation when said foot was wearing purple fluffy slipper boots wasn’t the most intimidating, but he hoped his expression did the rest.

 

And it was Rash’s fault they were a ‘shoes-off’ apartment anyway. Stefan bought these ridiculous slippers mostly to try and make a point.

 

Over on the sofa, Rash coughed defensively, and shrugged. “Why did you nearly get run over by that cab on the way to Tesco the other day?”

 

“That was different! That was… yes, I mean I noticed the Volvo because it was shiny but that was the description of the car in the suspect’s profile, not just…” Stefan huffed. The microwave beeped and he got the bowl of popcorn out, carrying it across the room and dumping it not at all gently in Rash’s lap. Kernels flew around, which Rash would also find annoying.

 

Stefan picked up the Smart TV remote and started flicking through the Netflix menu. Definitely amongst the top advantages of living with Rash – well, in the top twenty anyway – was getting into his Netflix account. And days like this, when Rash was annoying, pushed it up the list considerably.

 

“Anyway you’ve shot yourself in the foot mate, because we’re not watching Star Trek now, no way.”

 

-

 

Astride his mighty wall of ice, the warrior lord Stefan surveyed his lands. They had called him young to rise so high, but his skills at charm and diplomacy had been equaled only by his skills with his great sword Krakenwoe, and although the king still sat in his palace in the south, it was Stefan who all knew kept the kingdom together.

 

“My lord, there are whisperings of dark things in the islands beyond the foul sea.”

 

It was the Hooded Lady, Eleanor, who had spoken. When Stefan had first arrived, she had been one of the many to command him but as time had passed and his abilities become clear, she had been the first to call for him to rule, and he set great store by her counsel, now as ever.

 

Hearing her words, Stefan sighed, and pulled his great fur cloak further about his shoulders.

 

“Then the alliance with the Metrop becomes even more vital.”

 

She nodded slowly. “And their envoy is such a man…” she said, raising her hands in an elegant, illustrative gesture.

 

“I can manage him,” Stefan murmured. He only wished he felt as sure as he sounded.

 

As if on cue, there was a sound of footsteps behind him. No danger – Eleanor would have known, and warned him – but that pace of travel, in men swaddled in fur and weary with winter, meant nothing good.

 

“My Lord,” said the soldier, and dropped a quick bow. “It is the envoy from Metrop. He says he must speak with you.”

 

Stefan sighed, but this was what was needed, after all, if the relationship between the Sainted Forest Order kingdom and the Metrop was to be given roots. “I will be there presently,” he assured the soldier, who scurried back at once.

 

“I wonder what it is the envoy has found to complain about this time,” he observed to Eleanor, and heard her laughter as he went to take a steadier route down to the garrison and guest chambers, as befitting the lord of all he surveyed.

 

In the relative luxury of the largest of the chambers Stefan’s castle could offer, he found the envoy pacing from end to end, his arms wrapped about himself, a frown on his face.

 

When Stefan entered, the man whirled round and came forward, his hand raised.

 

“I’ve told you before to knock!”

 

Stefan cleared his throat. “You wished to see me, Envoy Sayyad?”

 

The envoy drew himself up. He was dressed, in the manner of Metrop, in a neat jerkin and long, thin coat with an elegant collar. He kept his dark hair short-cut around his head, unlike Stefan’s long mane, with the hair on his chin and upper lip similarly shorn. Every inch of him bespake the elegance and riches of the mighty kingdom from which he came, and every inch of him was unprepared, it seemed, for the way Stefan lived.

 

“I can’t be expected to live like this any longer, storm or no storm,” was indeed Envoy Sayyad’s opening gambit. “I’ll take a ship, any ship, to get home, someone will take me.”

 

“It is too dangerous, until the spring. I’m sorry that you find it difficult here…”

 

“Difficult? How do the men cope? How do you keep them? When it is so cold, and lonely, and there is nothing to do, and no fun to be had?”

 

“We have one solution, usually, for all those problems together,” Stefan couldn’t resist pointing out, and licked his lips.

 

The envoy blushed, but from over the other side of the room came a peal of laughter. The envoy’s sister, Leila, who was across the room, sitting organising her healer’s kit by the light coming in from the window. Stefan liked her.

 

“I’ll thank you not to speak to me that way.”

 

The Envoy’s blush was still high on his cheeks. Stefan stepped closer. Blast it but the man smelt good, despite his fussy ways, his complaints about cleanliness, his worries about variety of diet and all the other things that kept Stefan at his beck and call every day.

 

“Perhaps if you would wear more of our clothes, you would feel the chill less,” Stefan pointed out. “Otherwise you may have to consider the traditional solution we offer…”

 

-

 

“If this is another request to turn down the central heating, consider it denied,” Rash said dryly.

 

“What?” Stefan’s words had become, and had been for most of the last of his story, somewhat groggy. He had got his hand onto Rash’s thigh in the illustration of the tale and even though they were both still in their jeans, his brain was struggling with blood-flow as a result.

 

OK, so many even a Netflix subscription paled next to some of the other things that had come into his life since living with Rash. Three weeks now, since that first kiss when they’d been tipsy and happy and watching the bonfire night fireworks of half of London through their huge windows. Two weeks since they’d mostly given up using the second bedroom.

 

“Also,” Rash was continuing, “I’m not a prude. And I don’t complain all the time. And you are very messy.”

 

Grinning, Stefan slid his hand higher. It really wasn’t a very big sofa, so maybe Rash was right about needing to fix that, but he could improvise. “How about I’m messy with you, right now?”

 

“Also,” Rash’s voice had gone all high. Stefan liked it when that happened. “Leila wouldn’t take your side over mine.”

 

“That’s literally what she always does.”

 

Rash grabbed Stefan’s hand by the wrist, which could have been a good sign, but then pushed it away, frowning again.

 

“I thought we were having a civilized evening for once? Watching the TV together, talking, enjoying each other like human beings not… rutting animals?”

 

“How is it uncivilized to get cosy with the person you like?”

 

Rash rolled his eyes. “It’s not the what, it’s the _how_ you go about it.”

 

-

 

“The Honorable Mr. Arrash Sayyad.”

 

As the footman’s voice rang out through the packed Assembly Hall, Rash noticed more than a few eyes turning to towards him. It a truth universally acknowledged, after all, that a single man in possession of a large fortune must be in want of…

 

…the thought died in his mind. His eye had been caught by the sight of the dancers moving merrily across the floor in the centre of the great room, and by one young man in particular.

 

This young man was laughing, too loudly quite to be polite, but charmingly, openly, his face wide with his sparkling grin as he took his partner down the arches formed by the arms of the other dancers. He was young and slender, his royal blue coat setting off his golden curls, his muscular legs flexing interestingly in tightly fitted buckskins.

 

The dance was nearing its completion. Rash moved to stand by one of the great fireplaces, taking a glass of spiced red punch from a waiting servant, sipping it and keeping his eyes all the while on the man across the way. More than the warmth of the burning logs was soon coursing through him.

 

With the music in its final strains, the musicians placed down their instruments, evidently in one of their brief respites – Rash saw they were being brought trays of drinks – and the crowd, having applauded, turned away to disperse and re-mingle.

 

The blond young man kissed his partner’s hand in parting, but did not turn to look back at her, and then started making his way with apparent purpose – ah, Rash realised, with something strangely like relief, the source of that fixed, urgent attention was merely the groaning trestles along the walls where the evening’s food was laid out.

 

Who was he? Spoken for or not? Of what fortune, what family?

 

Earnestly, Rash looked around the room for familiar faces, wondering if there was anyone who might effect him an acquaintance…

 

-

 

“Look, is this the kind of Regency romance where we shag in an anteroom practically as soon as we meet and everyone’s anatomy heaves under muslin, or the kind where we keep repressed and misunderstand each other for 300 pages and I go off with the bloke who’s clearly bad news before realising you’re actually the one for me? And we never shag at all because it’s Austen?”

 

Rash rolled his eyes. “It was going to be the kind where I ride a dragon in the Napoleonic wars and you get to be my lieutenant and we capture enemy ships together _whilst_ riding the dragon, but anyway you’ve ruined it now.”

 

He folded his arms and slumped back on the sofa.

 

The cushions shifted. Stefan was pressing in beside him, nosing hopefully at his shoulder. Rash didn’t have to look at him to know how wide and dark his eyes would be, all remorseful and affectionate as a kicked puppy.

 

That was why Rash wasn’t looking.

 

“I’m sorry. That does sound pretty cool.”

 

Rash sniffed.

 

“And…” Stefan made an uncertain sort of noise, and Rash did turn to look at him, and saw Stefan bite his lip, then gaze cautiously upwards. “And, do you think you really would, like, spot me across a crowded room? Like… Obviously here, now, I’m available and everything but if you had everyone, if you had a choice… to choose me, from everybody?”

 

Rash felt an ache in his chest. It was moments like this, Stefan just being himself, clear and easy, when Rash wanted him so much he could barely speak. He wasn’t good at the speaking part – neither of them ever was.

 

“I mean,” Stefan was actually blushing, which Rash had discovered over the past weeks – very mind-expanding weeks - took some doing. “I know I can be a disaster zone and I don’t always remember to hoover or close the dishwasher properly, and maybe – maybe – I’ve caused you a bit of trouble with the falling over and running over things, but…”

 

Rash cleared his throat. He could feel the heat in his own face. Interesting, and scary, to know that Stefan had noticed in his turn how easily Rash did that. And seemed to like it, what’s more.

 

“Maybe I like looking after you, sometimes.” He coughed. “Not clearing up dishwasher foam, perhaps, but the rest of it…” He slid his fingers over Stefan’s temple, through his lovely hair.

 

Stefan closed his eyes under the touch, shivering. “I’m not very used to being looked after,” he said so quietly it was only audible in the tiny space between them.

 

“I’m not very used to being needed,” Rash confessed in return, his lips grazing against Stefan’s skin.

 

Stefan twisted his head, just a little, and they were kissing.

 

“See?” Rash couldn’t resist saying when they parted, lips bruised. They’d been kissing, and just kissing, for what felt like hours, sipping at each other, getting sore and breathless and intoxicated. They hadn’t taken this kind of time over it before, not even back at the beginning. This was what he’d hoped for, when he’d suggested having a sofa day together. “This is pretty nice, just this, isn’t it?”

 

“Well, yeah, I guess it is.” Stefan was grinning, and the gentle movement of his thumb against Rash’s jaw said more than his words did. A flash of teeth, the sparkle of his gorgeous, devilish eyes: “But we still get our happy ending, right?”

 

Rash had to laugh. Stefan could make him laugh like no one else ever had, even if half the time Rash wanted to flick his ear or slap his arse at the same time.

 

Actually, that was an idea…

 

“You’re disgusting,” Rash told him. “But yeah, I reckon we do.” He let out another quick giggle, and decided to be bold.

 

“Come on mighty lord,” he said, lying back. “Warm me up.”

 

The look in Stefan’s eyes told him he’d made a very good guess.

 

And they still had a lot of story to write.

 

 

 


End file.
